


Bitter Winds and Rain

by DruidX



Series: Modern Oblivion AU [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Alcohol, Changing Tenses, Dissociation, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, Purple Prose, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29565813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DruidX/pseuds/DruidX
Summary: Set in my Modern AU while Martin is still in his coma.Aderyn is not dealing well with the fallout from Dagon's attack. Neither is Baurus.
Relationships: Baurus & Female Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil, Baurus/Martin Septim, Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil & Martin Septim
Series: Modern Oblivion AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945987
Kudos: 2





	Bitter Winds and Rain

The flat was a pile of shit. They'd known that the moment they'd moved in. But it was cheap and available, and the landlord hadn't asked any questions when they showed up with three months rent in crumpled, diesel-scented notes.

Middle of the afternoon.

The single naked bulb barely did anything to dispel the gloom that permeated the room. A bottle of vodka, a pack of deli meat, a jar of sliced gherkins, and a lit cigarette resting in the jar cap sat on the scarred antique tabletop. Charity shop, that one. First thing they'd found that looked like it might hold two dinners without folding. Thin, no-longer-white netting diffused the witchlight of an oncoming storm, leaving waves of infection-orange light spreading over the ceiling.

A pallid, thin hand wrapped around the bottle, the red label standing out like welling blood. The knuckles whiten, the fingers grip. Blue eyes glare from under hair the colour of embers at peeling wallpaper, drooping from a splotch of spreading damp in the corner. The second pallid hand picks at the table varnish, scratching further scars into the abused table to the tick of a leaking tap.

Piercing blue eyes blink slowly as the door unlocking reverberates through the still air.

"I'm back," calls a male voice, the timbre of his voice like the smell of pine-wood; soft, and rich and warm. Keys crash and slide across the Formica kitchen counter and he appears a moment later, seen in the corner of that blue gaze. Framed in the kitchen doorway, he's tall, dark and handsome. Eyes like mink fur take in the blue glare, the table and its content with one glance.

He walks over, takes the cigarette and stubs it out on the jar lid. "I thought you quit?" The voice changes; it's no longer mellow pine. More like a nettle leaf, sharp and biting.

"I did." That voice sounds like a rook's call; harsh, throaty. Blackened. Not light and feminine as she remembers.

"And this?" He pulls the vodka from her clutching fingers. "You're taking up drinking now too?" The blue gaze slides closed, moves from the hateful contemplation of the wallpaper, opens back on his face.

"Give that back," she says, tongue feeling each phoneme as if teasing pits from cherry-flesh.

"No." His voice thickens like molasses in snow.

She attacks without warning, a silent snake lashing out.

Hands bat, hair flies. A tangle of limbs ensues.

Though she is wily, she is also drunk on exhaustion, hate, and liquor; he is sober, and has the advantage of size and weight. She is soon pinned against him, immobile under arms the colour and constancy of a Cyprus branch. The bottle has been kicked under the table, heady ether fumes seeping into the gritty brown carpet.

"Let me go!" she screams, thrashing from inside his grip.

"No," he says, breathy from the spat, pulling her tighter against his chest.

"Goddamnit! That cost me ten fucking quid."

"You were robbed," he tells her.

"It was the good stuff, you wanker!" She thrashes again, but there's less energy in it. "Let me go."

"So you can chug what's left and I end up with two people I love in hospital?"

"Yeah. Sure. Don't trust me."

He tips his head back, eyes closed. "That's not what I-"

"It's the right call. I'm telling you: Don't trust me." Wetness hits his arms. Her voice drops like the growl of a cello. "Shouldn'ta trusted me from the get-go. Wouldn'ta got in this mess if you ain't trusted me."

"Oh, so it's all my fault?" He tries to keep his voice even, she can tell, but the nettle stings turn to bramble prickles.

"No. Shouldn'ta let you think you could. I screwed up. Again and again." Her head falls into the bunched muscles of his chest. "Kept letting you give me chances I never shoulda took. First Uriel... Now-"

He shakes her to cut her off. "It wasn't your fault! Dagon was the one-"

"It shouldn't have been him!" she screams, thrashing again. "It should've been me! Dagon shoulda stabbed _me_! I didn't clear the room!"

He bites his lips so hard he thinks he's made them bled. "You cleared it," he says. "I heard your report; you cleared it."

"Then how the fuck did I miss him! He was right there, the whole time, and I let Marti walk straight in-!" She sobs, chokes on it. "Shoulda been me."

"Yeah, that would really have helped when the doors all sealed, and Martin was bleeding out, and I was powerless-"

She squeaks, an involuntary breathless _hurk_ , as his arms tighten in his rage. It takes a moment for him to remember the ghoul in his arms, to remember that he's not supposed to be crushing her. The breath she drags in is involuntary as he lets her go, finally. She stumbles against the table, eyes finding the drooping wallpaper again. He turns to face the curtains, yellowed by the witchlight.

She straightens suddenly, reaches for the cigarette stub, takes a step or two away before he stirs.

"Where are you-?"

She stops. Her mouth works, soundless. "Leaving," she finally croaks.

"Going for more liquor?"

Her breath is quick and loud. "Yeah, sure."

"Bird..." His voice teeters, a stick half broken. She closes her eyes, twists her mouth away from the tears.

"Ain't no good to you. Can't trust me." She runs a dry tongue over chapped lips. "I'd just make things worse. So. No point in staying, yeah?"

"No!" The stick splits; a long, drawn-out crack. He moves fast, thick roots curling around milky bone. "No..." he says again, and this time it's the heavy patter of storm-drops on a windowpane. He draws himself toward her, gathering her under the canopy, as the boughs shake in the wind.

"I can't- You can't- No." The storm grows fiercer. He's heavy. Trees always are, when they're toppled by a storm. She does what she can to mitigate the fall. For him, that is; for herself, she does not care.

"Okay. Okay, I won't. I ain't gonna. B? B. I ain't leaving. B." The river swells, spilling over the banks. "I'll eat the stupid cakes. Whatever you put in front of me. And I'll make enough tea it's coming outta your ears. Just don't trust me. Don't trust me..."

The storm hammers, the tree breaks. The waters flood, and the rook drowns.


End file.
